


Counting Your Soul

by BrynTWedge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, CPR, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Greg Lestrade to the Rescue, M/M, Overdose, possible suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 18:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15691182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/pseuds/BrynTWedge
Summary: Greg receives some late-night texts from Mycroft that concern him. He heads over to see if Mycroft is alright.He's incredibly grateful that he did.





	Counting Your Soul

Greg sighed when he heard the text alert. He had been trying to sleep for hours. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without reading the message, and so he reluctantly reached out onto the bedside table and fetched it.

The light was bright in the dark room, and he had to squint to read it. He frowned. What was Mycroft Holmes doing texting him at two in the morning?

He opened his phone as another text came in.

  * **Gregory. I apologise.**
  * ******You are right.**



Greg had to take a minute to try and process the information. What was Mycroft talking about? Then he remembered the last interaction he’d had with the man, three days prior. He’d snapped after a long workday filled with Sherlock’s antics and criminals getting away, mixed in with a good dose of bureaucracy meddling in his cases and actually obstructing justice. It was then that Mycroft Holmes descended and started trying to tell him what was what, and Greg had lost his temper. He’d actually forgotten about it, since not long after storming off, he’d gotten a new lead on their murderer and wound up catching the bloke.  
****

He groaned as guilt washed over him. He really should have apologised to Mycroft. He hadn’t actually meant half of the things he’d said. Greg honestly loved the man; truly, heart-achingly, deeply loved him. But the aloof detachment he always received had also gotten the better of him that Tuesday. Greg wanted nothing more than to be able to profess his feelings and have them be reciprocated, but Mycroft clearly wasn’t interested and wanted to maintain a professional friendship. Occasionally Greg would think there was something more there, but it only seemed to serve to hurt him more with the temptation.

Greg started responding with a text, saying that no  _he_  should apologise, and that he didn’t mean it, it had only been the strained words of a stressful day when another text came through.

  * **I assure you I will not bother you in future.**



**** Greg bit his tongue. That wasn’t what he wanted. He deleted his text and started over.

  * **Mycroft, I shouldn’t have said those things to you. It was wrong of me, and having a bad day is no excuse. I am happy to explain to you more but not through text. Please let me.**



After shaking his head a few times to wake himself up, realising he was nodding off, he suddenly realised how strange it was for Mycroft to be texting him at that hour. He was suddenly unsettled. It had taken him a while to send that long message, and there had been no further comment from Mycroft in that time. Did he mean to stop talking altogether?

“Shit, no, that’s…” Greg uttered. Another text came through as he was writing more, somewhat dangerously close to confessing his attraction.

  * **Aspolgies, I am in capable of now.**



Adrenaline suddenly coursed through his veins. Mycroft Holmes never made spelling errors. Something was wrong.  
He discarded his text and rang Mycroft’s mobile instead. He sat upright in bed and turned on the light as it rang. There was no answer.

  * **Mycroft, are you alright?**
  * ******Do you need help?**
  * ******Mycroft, please answer me.**



**** Greg grunted in frustration. He wanted to be there if Mycroft was having emotional trouble — which it sounded like he was — and help if he could. The lack of answer was concerning. He tried phoning again.

  * **Mycroft I’m concerned about you.**
  * ******If you don’t respond, I’ll come over.**



He decided to get dressed as he waited for a response. By the time he’d tied his shoes, there was still nothing. He grabbed his phone and keys, and headed out. He didn’t care if he was being presumptuous. His gut was telling him that it was important to go.

Greg arrived at Mycroft’s house around half an hour later. He was glad that he knew where the man lived at all; he knew such information wasn’t given lightly. He banged on the door, but the house remained silent and dark. He called the phone again.

He was starting to get honestly worried at this point. He ground his teeth as he considered what he was about to do.   
“Fuck it,” he grumbled as he ended the call to Mycroft’s mobile and called Sherlock instead.

“I need the code to your brother’s house,” he barked into the receiver, cutting off Sherlock’s insulting grumbles.

Greg input the code as Sherlock recited the numbers. He was glad that Sherlock recognised the urgency in his voice.   
“Greg… what’s going on?” Sherlock asked him, an unusual timid concern there.  
“Could be nothing,” he said as he walked into the stately home. “Or it could be really important that I’m here.”  
“Why?”  
“He texted me an hour ago. Then he texted me with spelling and grammar errors.”  
“… Hurry, Lestrade,” Sherlock uttered. Greg nodded and hung up.

Greg called out Mycroft’s name over and over, but there was no response in the silent house. He ran through the house checking the rooms as his heart pounded.

He found the bedroom, and Mycroft’s form laying under the covers. He suddenly hoped that the British Government hadn’t just collapsed from exhaustion and would angrily throw him out of the house… and possibly the country in the morning.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked quietly from the doorway. There was no response, and so he tried again, louder. He entered the room and walked up to the side of the bed. He called out again, but there was still no response.

He bit his lip and reached out to touch the man’s shoulder.   
“Mycroft?”

There was still no response. He shook the shoulder, rougher than he intended, however the adrenaline was surging through him again. Mycroft didn’t answer.   
“Fuck,” he breathed. He pulled Mycroft onto his back.

Mycroft wasn’t responding, and Greg only now noticed how still he was. He was barely breathing.   
“Fucking hell, Mycroft, what happened?”  
Greg’s first aid training kicked into gear. He tilted Mycroft’s head back to open his airway, and fumbled about for a pulse. He hissed at how slow and weak it felt.

He pulled out his phone to call for an ambulance, but hesitated. In normal circumstances, an ambulance would be required. But he wasn’t sure about policy regarding this not-minor Civil Servant. Sure, the man’s life might be at risk. But he had little to no information to work with. He then realised that he should have checked the room for any threats.

His eyes darted about, but found nothing amiss. He then called Sherlock.   
“What is it?” Sherlock snapped, more from concern than anger.  
“Found him. Unresponsive. He needs an ambulance. Do I just call one or is there some other procedure to follow for him?”  
“What happened?”  
“I don’t know. He’s just… unconscious and barely breathing. Weak pulse.”  
“I’ll call for one,” Sherlock said. “John and I are coming over. We can help them in. Stay with him, Lestrade. I’ll put John on.”

Greg was grateful for the help. He continued to try get Mycroft to respond, but it wasn’t with any success.  
“Greg? Put me on speaker,” John said into the phone. Greg obliged and put he phone on the bedside table. He then reiterated what the situation was.  
“John… I think… I think he did it to himself,” he whimpered.  
“What? Why?”  
“The texts… he said he assured me he wouldn’t bother me in future. John, what if…” Greg’s voice hitched, “What if this was a suicide attempt?”  
“Jesus,” John uttered. “I don’t know why he’d text you about it, though, but… yes, we can’t discount it. Can you see anything that might indicate what happened?”

Greg looked about. There was nothing. He could faintly smell alcohol, though, as if Mycroft had had a few glasses of whiskey or scotch.  
“John… John I’m really worried. He’s not breathing enough. There’s the faint smell of alcohol but that’s it.”  
“Alright. Greg, I need you to remain calm, but I think you might have to give him CPR.”

Greg clenched his jaw and nodded. If this was a suicide attempt, then he knew Mycroft Holmes would get it right enough. It was a possibility lurking in the back of his mind. There was barely enough air escaping Mycroft’s mouth to be counted as breathing anymore.

He hated that this was the circumstance that would have his lips pressed to Mycroft’s for the first time.

He pinched the long nose and tilted the head back. He drew in a deep breath and clasped his mouth over Mycroft’s. He exhaled forcefully then tilted his head to the side to watch his chest fall back again. He repeated the process and then pressed his ear to the still chest.

The heartbeat was faint and slow. The silence was like a knife stabbing and twisting his gut. Greg dragged Mycroft out of the bed and unceremoniously onto the floor. The plush bedding wouldn’t be resistant enough to allow compressions.

“This isn’t going to hurt him, is it? To compress his chest with a pulse?”  
“If it’s as slow and weak as you say, you’ll be doing more good than not,” John answered through the phone.

Greg nodded and entwined his fingers, pressing the heel of his palm into Mycroft’s sternum.  
_How the fuck did I get here?_

“One, two, three, four, five…” Greg counted out loud.  
_Breathe, Myc.  
_ “Six, seven, eight…”  
_Fucking hell, what did you do?  
_ “Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…”  
_Come on, Myc. Don’t do this._

Greg reached thirty and gave another two breaths. He vaguely registered John giving him supportive words through the phone. He continued pressing down on Mycroft’s chest in what he hoped was the right rhythm.  
“Where’s that fucking ambulance?” Greg shouted. He was aware he was shaking, but he focused on the task at hand without a spare thought to himself. He was also crying, tears dropping down onto the chest below as he compressed it.  
_How the fuck did my night end up like this?_

“Twenty-three, twenty-four…”  
His voice was hitching from the emotions overflowing. He didn’t stop. He gave another two rescue breaths, not caring that he was starting to feel dizzy.  
“Myc, please…” he whimpered.  
“You’re just keeping him alive, Greg. He’s not going to suddenly jump up.”  
“Shut it John!” Greg snapped, but then mumbled an apology. John would understand. He wasn’t angry, he was just extremely stressed and did  _not_  want to hear that.  
“We suspect drug overdose. That means the drugs are going to keep him in respiratory depression… you have to just hold out until the paramedics get there.”

“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”  
The numbers came in succession. He hated hearing them, but he dared not stop and lose track. His mind was already welling with terrified thoughts… he’d easily forget where he was up to, and he couldn’t face not doing his best to keep the man he loved alive. Still, it was almost surreal to hear only his own words speaking out into the silence. Silence that should have been filled with Mycroft’s breathing.

“Greg, you’re doing great.”  
“Eight, nine, ten… thanks… twelve… dizzy… fourteen…”  
“Careful, mate.”  
“Twenty-one… won’t… twenty-three… stop…”  
_I’ll fucking pass out before I stop.  
_ “You’re not good to him unconscious.”

He didn’t know how many cycles he’d been through. It was all just the same desperate repetition, the same numbers, the same segments of thirty and two. The world was spinning, but the adrenaline was sustaining him.  
_Hold on, Myc. I need you.  
_ Two breaths, start compressions.  
_I need to tell you how much of a bastard you are for doing this.  
_ “Four, five…”  
_And how much I love you._

He could finally hear sirens approach.  
_Fuck, how am I supposed to let them in and keep breathing for him?_  
“John… I…” Greg panted, clenching his eyes together to keep himself upright.  
“Sherlock’s given them the code, mate. Don’t worry about that. We’re still a few minutes away.”

Greg nodded. He blinked, trying to remember what he was up to. He pressed his ear to Mycroft’s chest, both to listen and to try catch his breath. The thudding he could hear was still faint and sluggish. He’d stopped breathing altogether.  
_Thank god he texted me. By now he’d be…_

He heard the medics arrive and rush in. He called out for them. Greg clasped his mouth over Mycroft’s again and exhaled as two middle aged women and a bulky man knelt down and set up their equipment. One of the women grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it supportively while simultaneously pulling him back away so they could work.

Greg leant backwards. He tried to stand, but he stumbled and collapsed onto the floor. He groaned as he picked himself up into a seated position, not taking his eyes off Mycroft laying on the bedroom floor. One of them had strapped an AED to him as the other prepared the stretcher.

“Myc,” he breathed between gaping breaths.  
_Please be ok._

The paramedics worked quickly, far too much so for Greg to follow what they were doing. He was still trying to shake the dizziness. The edges of the world were starting to return to him, at least. He knew his body would have forced him to stop sooner rather than later, had the ambulance not arrived when it did.

Once he’d caught his breath, the shock seeped into him. He was shaking, cold, and sweaty. He felt like he might be sick. Being trained for these situations did nothing to help the reaction when it was someone you cared about. He still kept his eyes fixed on Mycroft as he was intubated and put on the stretcher. He remained on the floor as they carried him out.

Before the paramedics could even leave the house, John and Sherlock arrived. Greg glanced up at his phone on the beside table, briefly wondering if he was still on the line with John. The doctor entered the room and knelt before Greg.

“Hey, Greg?”  
“Mmhph,” he responded, nodding.  
“Sherlock’s with him. They’re going to the hospital. We can go behind when you’re ready,” John said as he pulled Mycroft’s blanket over and draped it around Greg. He didn’t even resist.  
“What… I don’t… how?” Greg spluttered.  
“We’re lucky he contacted you, and you came over.”  
“I don’t think he was with it when he texted,” Greg admitted. He tried to stand, stumbling. “Whatever happened, we’ll find out. Right?”

The uncertainty was clear in Greg’s voice in the question at the end of his sentence. John rubbed him on this back a few times.  
“Yeah, we’ll find out. Come on.”

Greg nodded and followed John. He felt exhausted, but there was still lingering adrenaline in his body enough to motivate him out of the house and follow Mycroft.

* * *

It was painful to watch. They’d concluded that Mycroft had overdosed on benzodiazepine, but the amount was only made deadly because of combining with the alcohol. It wasn’t certain if it had been a deliberate attempt on his own life, or merely an accident.

Greg’s personal opinion was that it  _had_  been a suicide attempt, but not one he had been committed to once inebriated. That Mycroft had calculated what to do to end it, but had reached out almost subconsciously for help when the pain and mental acuity had been dulled.

He’d sat in Mycroft’s private room since arriving. The doctors had given him more numbers… estimates, results, readings, he wasn’t sure which were which anymore… but all he could hear was his own voice counting in his head. Counting and counting Mycroft’s life force beneath him.

Greg had cracked two ribs while performing CPR. He wasn’t guilty in the slightest.

Sherlock occasionally had come in and out of the room, but was proving too restless to stay for any period of time. It would be difficult for him, Greg reasoned, to see his brother laying in a hospital bed attached to a ventilator.

Thankfully, Mycroft resumed breathing on his own that evening. It was weak at first, but slowly improved. They’d used drugs to help the heart rate and blood pressure when admitted, but the dosage was reduced to nothing eventually. Greg was relieved.

It was the following morning when Mycroft stirred and blinked his eyes open. Greg’s heart leapt at the visual evidence of him being alive and well. They hadn’t anticipated any damage been done, given that Greg was on the scene so quickly.

Mycroft looked about, confused, and locked eyes on Greg. Greg was frowning, giving him a stern look. He of course felt overjoyed that Mycroft as alive, but he was still very upset and couldn’t work out how to express the ball of emotions other than to stoically glare.

“Gregory…” Mycroft croaked.  
“You, Mycroft Holmes, are in big trouble.”

Mycroft looked panicked, even if still sluggish.  
Greg reached out and gripped his hand tightly. “You have a man who loves you that you scared shitless.”  
“I…”  
“I’m just so fucking grateful you reached out to me.”  
Mycroft looked confused.  
“The text messages,” Greg explained.

“Why didn’t you come to me first?” Greg asked, his voice pained. He’d been asking himself that question over and over during his vigil. “I would have helped, Mycroft,” he added, barely a whisper.  
“You… said…”  
“I was angry, alright? Just pissed off with the world and you happened to catch the brunt of it. That’s all. I wan’t… hating you, Myc. Not at all.”

Mycroft looked down at himself. “It was a long time coming,” he admitted quietly.  
“You did this on purpose?”  
Mycroft nodded. “Not… I didn’t  _try_  to die, I simply wanted… it to stop. Everything. I did not care if I endangered myself,” he explained, coughing. His throat sounded dry, as expected from the respirator. “Or if I happened not to wake.”

Greg pursed his lips and frowned again. “Well, I do. I wasn’t lying, Myc. I… care about you. A lot.So here’s what we’re going to do… we’re going to get you some help. We’re going to find someone for you to talk to, have you attend sessions, maybe see if some medication will help.”

Mycroft flushed red but said nothing. Greg reached closer and cupped the man’s cheek, lifting his chin so that he could look into his eyes. Greg saw the emotions swirling in the bluey grey depths. He stroked his thumb across the soft skin a few times.

“And we can also perhaps go for a drink? Maybe just one,” Greg said, adding the last part as he was stabbed in the gut with the memory of an unresponsive Mycroft smelling of whiskey.  
“One is good,” Mycroft uttered. “Any number of times.”  
“Good. That’s… that’s good.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said quietly, “for scaring the man I love shitless.”


End file.
